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Nothing captures the charm of Edinburgh like the bestselling Isabel Dalhousie series of novels featuring the insatiably curious philosopher and woman detective. Whether investigating a case or a problem of philosophy, the indefatigable Isabel Dalhousie, one of fictionâ??s most richly developed amateur detectives, is always ready to pursue the answers to all of lifeâ??s questions, large and small.
In this first installment, Isabel is attending a concert in the Usher Hall when she witnesses a man fall from the upper balcony. Isabel canâ??t help wondering whether it was the result of mischance or mischief. Against the best advice of her no-nonsense housekeeper Grace, her bassoon playing friend Jamie, and even her romantically challenged niece Cat, she is morally bound to solve this case. Complete with wonderful Edinburgh atmosphere and characters straight out of a Robert Burns poem, The Sunday Philosophy Club is a delightful treat from one of our most beloved auth… (mere)
Well, that was a disappointment. The mystery, such as it is, is boring and trivially resolved in the last two pages, after numerous red herrings, none of which are really ever resolved.
The characters are boring -- Isabel Dalhousie is an elderly, rich Scottish woman who, despite frequently judging everyone else for being layabouts, seems to do nothing to occupy her time except judge others, nose into other people's business and obsess about the sex life of people half her age.
The schtick of the book is ostensibly the philosophy, but this is no [b:Sophie's World|10959|Sophie's World (Paperback)|Jostein Gaarder|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/21A6T5PH7YL._SL75_.jpg|4432325]. Philosophy is mentioned in passing, over-simplified and only in the most trite way.
Speaking as one who doesn't mind the leisurely plot development and frequent meandering musings of an Alexander McCall Smith book, this one was too ponderous even for me. ( )
I needed something like this after four kinda long fantasy books (though they're not the heaviest things I've read). Short, extremely easy to read, and not overly complicated.
Isabel was pretty nice, but her and Cat's relationship was way too much like Domenica and Pat's relationship in the 44 Scotland Street series, to the point where they barely felt like their own characters. There's of course a bit of Mma Ramotswe in Isabel, but it's been a while since I read Ladies' Detective Agency, so that didn't bother me as much.
The mystery wasn't that thrilling, but that isn't exactly what I expected either. I think it had a pretty satisfying conclusion, given the type of book this is. ( )
Isabel Dalhousie is the editor of the Review of Applied Ethics, a part-time role that satisfies her continuing interest in moral philosophy. Her life is also filled with opportunities to ponder the moral niceties. Should she intrude upon her niece’s relationship with a man of whom she disapproves? When, if ever, is lying permissible? What is the relationship between courtesy and morality? And what, if anything, does one owe to a dead man? Especially if you are probably the last person to see him alive as he fell past you from the seats at the very top of Usher Hall.
Isabel is a thoroughly enjoyable conduit for these musings. She is diffident yet brave. She pieces out her responsibilities and then acts, wisely or not, with verve. She isn’t always correct in the conclusions she reaches, but she revises her opinions promptly as new information comes to light. And, I admit it, I’ve got a soft spot for those who can weave real philosophical opinions and insights into their literature. Well done!
I’d gladly recommend this book and look forward to the next in the series. ( )
Her penchant for conducting moral arguments with herself is well-developed, but it can be less than riveting for the reader. Why does Isabel find herself drawn into the affairs of others? Is it because there is some moral imperative leading her to do so? Is it because man has an obligation to his fellow man? (Or is it because ladies who like to investigate crimes can be ladies who sell many, many books?)
...this book is a clear demonstration of Mr. McCall Smith's own philosophy: that there is wisdom in inviting readers into a world of kindness, gentility and creature comforts. Offer the literary equivalent of herbal tea and a cozy fire. They'll come back for more.
Pickled onions had nothing to do with moral imagination, but were important in their own quiet, vinegary way, supposed Isabel.
When the beautiful died, it was the same as when the less well blessed died; that was obvious. But why did it seem more tragic that Rupert Brooke, or Byron for that matter, should die, than other young men? Perhaps it was because we love the beautiful more, or because Death's momentary victory is all the greater. Nobody, he says, smiling, is too beautiful not to be taken by me.
She wondered how many of these people were solitary by choice, and how many were alone because nobody had ever come into their lives and relieved them of their loneliness.
The answer, she had concluded, was that this had nothing to do with happiness, which came upon you like the weather, determined by your personality.
"I can't imagine what I would do in a secret life, if I had one to lead. What is there to do that people really disapprove of these days? Nobody seems to blink an eyelid over affairs. And convicted murderers write books."
The story of Jekyll and Hyde was conceived in Edinburgh, of course, and made perfect sense there.
"I was a fund manager in an earlier life, I suspect," said Paul. "And presumably that's what I'll be in the next."
We do not like those who are completely available, who make themselves over to us entirely. They crowd us out. They make us feel uneasy.
So that, thought Isabel, was that. The whole edifice of philosophical debate on the fine nuances of truth telling is ultimately undermined by a simple biological process. Tell a fib and you go red in the face.
Sometimes one just does things—ridiculous things—that one can't explain.
Good manners depended on paying moral attention to others; it required one to treat them with complete moral seriousness, to understand their feelings and their needs. Some people, the selfish, had no inclination to do this, and it showed. They were impatient with those whom they thought did not count: the old, the inarticulate, the disadvantaged. The person with good manners, however, would always listen to such people and treat them with respect.
manners were the basic building block of civil society.
It was the obsessive dieters who were unhappy and anxious.
Nothing captures the charm of Edinburgh like the bestselling Isabel Dalhousie series of novels featuring the insatiably curious philosopher and woman detective. Whether investigating a case or a problem of philosophy, the indefatigable Isabel Dalhousie, one of fictionâ??s most richly developed amateur detectives, is always ready to pursue the answers to all of lifeâ??s questions, large and small.
In this first installment, Isabel is attending a concert in the Usher Hall when she witnesses a man fall from the upper balcony. Isabel canâ??t help wondering whether it was the result of mischance or mischief. Against the best advice of her no-nonsense housekeeper Grace, her bassoon playing friend Jamie, and even her romantically challenged niece Cat, she is morally bound to solve this case. Complete with wonderful Edinburgh atmosphere and characters straight out of a Robert Burns poem, The Sunday Philosophy Club is a delightful treat from one of our most beloved auth
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The characters are boring -- Isabel Dalhousie is an elderly, rich Scottish woman who, despite frequently judging everyone else for being layabouts, seems to do nothing to occupy her time except judge others, nose into other people's business and obsess about the sex life of people half her age.
The schtick of the book is ostensibly the philosophy, but this is no [b:Sophie's World|10959|Sophie's World (Paperback)|Jostein Gaarder|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/21A6T5PH7YL._SL75_.jpg|4432325]. Philosophy is mentioned in passing, over-simplified and only in the most trite way.
There's very little redeemable here. (